One could elaborate this idea still further and make one's sea bag
look like a clump of poison ivy, so that no inspecting officer would
ever care to become intimate with its numerous defects in cleanliness.
One might even go so far as to camouflage oneself into a writing desk
so that when visiting the "Y" or the "K-C" and unexpectedly required
to sing one would not be forced to rise and scream impatiently and
threateningly "Dear Mother Mine" or "Break the News to Mother." Not
that these songs are not things of rare beauty in themselves, but
after a day on the coal pile one's lungs have been sufficiently
exercised to warrant relief. This is merely an idea of mine, and now
that everybody knows about it I guess there isn't much use in going
ahead with it.


_Aug. 8th._ "This guide i-s l-e-f-t!" shouted the P.O., and naturally
I looked around to see what had become of the poor fellow.

"Keep your head straight. Eyes to the front! Don't move! Whatcha
lookin' at?"

"I was looking for the guide that was left," says I timidly. "It seems
to me that he is always being left."

"Company dismissed," said the P.O. promptly, showing a wonderful
command of the situation under rather trying circumstances, for the
boo-hoo that went up from the men after my remark defied all
restraints of discipline.

"Say, Biltmore," says the P.O. to me a moment later, "I'm going to see
if I can't get you shipped to Siberia if you pull one of them bum
jokes again. You understand?"

"But I wasn't joking," I replied innocently.

"Aw go on, you sly dog," said he, nudging me in the ribs, and for some
strange reason he departed in high good humor, leaving me in a greatly
mystified frame of mind.

Speaking of getting shipped, I have just written a very sad song in
the style of the old sentimental ballads of the Spanish war days. It's
called "The Sailor's Farewell," and I think Polly will like it. I
haven't polished it up yet, but here it is as it is:

A sailor to his mother came and said, "Oh, mother dear,
I got to go away and fight the war.
So, mother, don't you cry too hard, and don't you have no fear
When you find that I'm not sticking 'round no more."

"My boy," the sweet old lady said, "I hate to see you go.
I've knowed you since when you was but a kid,
But if the question you should ask, I'll tell the whole world so--
It's the only decent thing you ever did."

A tear she brushed aside,
And then she sadly cried:

CHORUS

"I'm proud my boy's a sailor man what sails upon the sea.
I've always liked him pretty well although he is so dumb.
For years he's stuck around the house and disappointed me.
I thought that he was going to be a bum."

He took her gently by the hand and kissed her on the bean
And said, "When I'm about to fight the Hun
You shouldn't talk to me that way; I think it's awfully mean--
I ain't agoin' to have a lot of fun."

"I know, my child," the mother said. "The parting makes me sad,
But go you must away and fight the war.
At least you will not live to drink as much as did your dad--
So here's your lid, my lad, and there's the door."

Then as he turned away
He heard her softly say:

CHORUS

"The sailors I have ever loved. I'm glad my lad's a gob,
Although it seems to me he's much too dumb.
But after all perhaps he isn't such an awful slob--
I always knew that Kaiser was a bum!"


_Aug. 9th._ The best way to make a deserter of a man is to give him
too much liberty. For the past week I have been getting my dog Fogerty
on numerous liberty lists when he shouldn't have been there, but not
contented with that he has taken to going around with a couple of
yeomen, and the first thing I know he will be getting on a special
detail where the liberty is soft. I put nothing past that dog since he
lost his head to some flop-eared huzzy with a black and tan
reputation.


_Aug. 10th._ All day long and a little longer I have been carrying
sacks of flour. The next time I see a stalk of wheat I am going to
snarl at it. This new occupation is a sort of special penance for not
having my hammock lashed in time. It seems that I have been in the
service long enough to know how to do the thing right by now, but the
seventh hitch is a sly little devil and always gets me. I need a
longer line or a shorter hammock, but the only way out of it that I
can see is to get a commission and rate a bed.

[Illustration: "I CARRIED ALL THE FLOUR TO-DAY THAT WAS RAISED LAST
YEAR IN THE SOUTHERN SECTION OF THE STATE OF MONTANA"]

I carried all the flour to-day that was raised last year in the
southern section of the State of Montana, and I was carrying it well
and cheerfully until one of my pet finger nails (the one that the
manicure girls in the Biltmore used to rave about) thrust itself
through the sack and precipitated its contents upon myself and the
floor. A commissary steward when thoroughly aroused is a poisonous
member of society. One would have thought that I had sunk the great
fleet the way this bird went on about one little sack of flour.

"Here Mr. Hoover works hard night and day all winter," he sobs at me,
"and you go spreading it around as if you were Marie Antoinette."

I wondered what new scandal he had about Marie Antoinette, but I held
my peace. My horror was so great that the real color of my face made
the flour look like a coat of sunburn in comparison.

"There's enough flour there," he continued reproachfully, pointing to
the huge mound of stuff in which I stood like a lost explorer on a
snow-capped mountain peak and wishing heartily that I was one,
"there's enough flour," he continued, "to keep a chief petty officer
in pie for twenty-four hours."

"Just about," thought I to myself.

"Well," he cried irritably, "pick it up. Be quick. Pick it up--all of
it!"

"Pick it up," I replied through a cloud of mist, "you can't pick up
flour. You can pick up apples and pears and cabbages and cigarette
butts for that matter, but you can't pick up flour."

The commissary steward suddenly handed me a piece of paper upon which
he had been writing frantically.

"Take this to your P.O.," he said shrilly, "and take yourself along
with it.

"A defect in the sack," I gasped, departing.

"And there's a defect in you," he shouted after me, "your brain is
exempted."

"Take this man and kill him if you can find any slight technical
excuse for it," the note ran, "and if you can't kill him, give him an
inaptitude discharge with my compliments, and if you are unable to do
either of these two things, at least keep him away from my outfit. We
don't want to see his silly face around here any more at all."

The P.O. read it to me with great delight.

"I guess we'll have to send you to Siberia after all," he said
thoughtfully, "only that country is in far too delicate a condition
for you to meddle with at present. Go away to somewhere where I can't
see you," he continued bitterly, "for I feel inclined to do you an
injury, something permanent and serious." I went right away.


_Aug. 11th._ Mother has just paid one of her belligerent visits to the
camp, and as a consequence I am on the point of having a flock of
brainstorms. Some misguided person had been telling her about the
Officer Training School up here, and she arrived fired with the
ambition to enter me into that institution without further delay.
True to form, she bounded headlong into the matter without consulting
my feelings by accosting the very first commissioned officer she met.
He happened to be an Ensign, but he might as well have been a
Vice-Admiral for all Mother cared.

"Tell me, young man," she said to this Ensign, going directly to the
point, "do you see any reason why my boy Oswald should not go to that
place where they make all the Ensigns?"

"Yes," said the officer firmly, "I do."

"Oh, you do," snapped Mother angrily, "and pray tell me what that
reason might be?"

"Your son Oswald," replied the Ensign laconically.

"What!" exclaimed Mother, "you mean to say that my Oswald is not good
enough to go to your silly old school?"

"No," replied the Ensign, weakening pitifully before the withering
fury of an aroused mother, "but you see, my dear madam, he has not a
first class rating."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Mother.

"Crossed anchors," replied the Ensign.

"I didn't mean that," continued Mother, "I think the whole thing is
very mysterious and silly, and I'm not going to let it stop here. You
can trust me, Oswald," she went on soothingly. "I am going to see the
Commander of the station myself. I am going this very instant."

"But, Mother," I cried in desperation, tossing all consequences to the
wind, "the 'skipper' isn't on the station to-day. He got a 43-hour
liberty. I saw him check out of the gate myself."

For a moment the Ensign's jaw dropped. I watched him anxiously. Then
with perfect composure he turned to Mother and came through like a
little gentleman.

"Yes, madam," he stated, "your son is right. I heard his name read out
with the liberty party only a moment ago. He has shoved off by now."

I could have kissed that Ensign.

"Well, I'm sure," said Mother, "it's very funny that I can never get
to the Captain. I shall write him, however."

"He must have an interesting collection of your letters already," I
suggested. "They would be interesting to publish in book form."

"Anyway," continued Mother, apparently not attending to my remark, "I
think you would look just as well as this young man in one of those
nice white suits."

"No doubt, madam," replied the Ensign propitiatingly, "no doubt."

"Come, Mother," said I, "let's go to the Y.M.C.A. I need something
cool to steady my nerves."

"How about your underwear?" said Mother, coming back to her mania, in
a voice that invited all within earshot who were interested in my
underwear to draw nigh and attend.

"Here, eat this ice cream," I put in quickly, almost feeding her.
"It's melting."

But Mother was not to be decoyed away from her favorite topic.

"I must look it over," she continued firmly.

It seemed to me that every eye in the room was calmly penetrating my
whites and carefully looking over the underwear in which Mother took
such an exaggerated interest. "Socks!" suddenly exploded Mother. "How
are you off for socks?"

"Splendidly," I said in a hoarse voice. A girl behind me snickered.

"And have you that liniment to rub on your stomach when you have
cramps?" she went on ruggedly.

"Enough to last through the Fall season," I replied in a moody voice.
I didn't tell her that Tim the barkeep had tried to drink it.

"Polly!" suddenly exclaimed Mother. "Polly! Why, I forgot to tell you
that she said that she would be up this afternoon. She must be here
now."

The world swam around me. Polly was my favorite sweetie.

"Oh, Mother!" I cried reproachfully, "how could you have forgotten?"

At that moment I heard a familiar voice issuing from the corner, and
turning around, I caught sight of the staff reporter of the camp
paper, a notoriously unscrupulous sailor with predatory proclivities.
He had gotten Polly in a corner and was chinning the ear off of her.
As I drew near I heard him saying:

"Really it's an awful pity, but I distinctly remember him saying that
he was going away on liberty to-day. He mentioned some girl's name,
but it didn't sound anything at all like yours."

Polly looked at him trustfully.

"Are you sure, Mr.----"

"Savanrola," the lying wretch supplied without turning a hair.

"Are you sure, Mr. Savanrola, that he has left the station?"

"Saw him check out with my own eyes," he said calmly.

I moved nearer, my hands twitching.

"Now with an honest old seafaring man like myself," he continued, in a
confidential voice, "it's different. Why, if I should wear all the
hash marks I rate I'd look like a zebra. So I just don't wear any. You
know how it is. But when I like a girl I stick to her. Now from the
very first moment I laid eyes on you--"

Human endurance could stand no more. I threw myself between them.

"Why, here's Oswald hisself," exclaimed the reporter with masterfully
feigned surprise. "However did you get back so soon?"

"I have never been away anywhere to get back from, and you know it," I
replied coldly.

"Strange!" he said, "I could have sworn that I saw you checking out.
Can I get you some ice cream?" he added smoothly.

"What on?" I replied bitterly, knowing him always to be broke.

"Your mother must have--"

"Come," said I to Polly, "leave this degraded creature to ply his
pernicious trade alone. I have some very important words to say to
you."

"Good-by, Mr. Savanrola," said Polly.

"Until we meet again," answered the reporter, with the utmost
confidence.


_Aug. 12th._ It's all arranged. Those words I had to say to Polly were
not spoken in vain. She has promised to be my permanent sweetie. Of
course, I have had a number of transit sweeties in the past, but now
I'm going to settle down to one steady, day in and day out sweetie. I
told Tim, the barkeep, about it last night and all he said was:

"What about all those parties we'd planned to have after we were paid
off?"

This sort of set me back for the moment. The spell of Polly's eyes had
made me forget all about Tim.

"Well, Tim," I replied, "I'll have to think about that. Come on over
to the canteen and I'll feed you some of those honest, upstanding
sandwiches they have over there."

"Say," says Tim, the carnal beast, forgetting everything at the
prospect of food, "I feel as if I could cover a flock of them without
trying."

So together Tim and I had a bachelor's dinner over the sandwiches,
which were worthy of that auspicious occasion.


_Aug. 17th._ We were standing on a street corner of a neighboring
town. The party consisted of Tim the barkeep, the "Spider," an
individual who modestly acknowledged credit for having brought relief
to several over-crowded safes in the good old civilian days; Tony, who
delivered ice in my district also in those aforementioned days, and
myself. These gentlemen for some time had been allowing me to exist in
peace, and I had been showing my gratitude by buying them whatever
little dainties they desired, but such a comfortable state of affairs
could not long continue with that bunch. Suddenly, without any
previous consultation, as if drawn together as it were by some
fiendish undercurrent, they decided to make me unhappy--me, the only
guy that spoke unbroken English in the crowd. This is the way they
accomplished their low ends. When the next civilian came along they
all of them shouted at me in tones that could be heard by all
passers-by:

"Here comes a 'ciwilian,' buddy; he'll give you a quarter."

"Do you need some money, my boy?" said the old gentleman to me in a
kindly voice.

"No, sir," I stammered, getting red all over, "thank you very much,
but I really don't need any money."

Ironical laughter from my friends in the background.

"Oh, no," cries Tim sarcastically, "he don't need no money. Just watch
him when he sees the color of it."

"Don't hesitate, my son," continued the kind old man, "if you need
anything I would be glad to help you out."

"No, sir," I replied, turning away to hide my mortification,
"everything is all right."

"Poor but proud," hisses the "Spider." The old gentleman passed on,
sorely perplexed.

For some time I was a victim of this crude plot. When I tried to move
away they followed me around the streets, crying after me:

"Any 'ciwilian' will give you a quarter. Go on an' ask them."

Several ladies stopped and asked if they could be of any service to
me. I assured them that they couldn't, but all the time these low
sailors whom I had been feeding lavishly kept jeering and intimating
that I was fooling and would take any amount of money offered me from
a dime up. This shower of conflicting statements always left the
kindhearted people in a confused frame of mind and broke me up
completely. I had to chase one man all the way down the street and
hand him back the quarter he had thrust into my hand. My friends never
forgave me for this.

At length, tiring of their sport, they desisted and stood gloomily on
the curb as sailors do, looking idly at nothing.

"It don't look like we was ever going to get a hitch," said the
"Spider," after we had abandonedly offered ourselves to several
automobiles.

At that moment a huge machine rolled heavily by.

"There goes a piece of junk," said Tim. The lady in the machine must
have heard him, for the car came to and she motioned for us to get in.

"Going our way?" she asked, smiling at us.

"Thanks, lady," replies Tim, elbowing me aside as he climbed aboard.

"Dust your feet," I whispered to Tony as he was about to climb in.

"Whatta you mean, dusta my feet?" shouted Tony wrathfully, "you go
head an' dusta your feet! I look out for my feet all right."

"What did he want yer to do, Tony?" asked Tim in a loud voice.

"Dusta my feet," answered Tony, greatly injured.

"What yer doin', Oswald?" asks Tim sarcastically, "tryin' to drag us
up?"

"I only spoke for the best," I answered, sick at heart.

"Ha! ha!" grated Tim, "guess you think we ain't never rode in one of
these wealthy wagons before."

"Arn't you rather young?" asked the lady soothingly of the "Spider,"
who by virtue of his mechanical experience in civil life had been
given a first class rating, "Arn't you rather young to have so many
things on your arm?"

"Yes," answered the "Spider" promptly, "but I kin do a lot of tricks."

The conversation languished from this point.

"We always take our boys to dinner, don't we, dear?" said the lady to
her husband a little later.

"Yes, dear," he answered meekly, just like that.

Expectant silence from the four of us.

"Have you boys had dinner?" the lady asked.

"Certainly not," we cried, with an earnestness that gave the lie to
our statement, "no dinner!"

"None at all," added Tim thoughtfully.

The automobile drew up at a 14k. plate-glass house that fairly made
the "Spider" itch.

"Gosh," he whispered to me, looking at the porch, "that wouldn't be
hard for me."

During the dinner he kept sort of lifting and weighing the silver and
then looking at me and winking in an obvious manner.

"Not many people here to-night," said Tony from behind his plate.

"Why, there is the usual number," said the husband in surprise, "my
wife and myself live alone."

"Oh," said Tony, looking around at the tremendous dining hall, "I
thought this was a restaurant."

[Illustration: "'OH,' SAID TONY, 'I THOUGHT THIS WAS A RESTAURANT'"]

Tim started laughing then, and he hasn't stopped yet. He's so proud he
didn't make the mistake himself.

The "Spider" didn't open his mouth save for the purpose of eating. He
told me he was afraid his teeth would chatter.


_Aug. 20th._ Got a letter from Polly to-day. She says that her finger
is just itching for the ring. I told the "Spider" about it and he said
that he had several unset stones he'd let me have for next to
nothing. A good burglar is one of the most valuable friends a man can
possess.


_Sept. 3d._ I had such a set-back to-day. Never was I more confounded.
This morning I received a notice to report before the examining board
for a first class rating. Of course I had been expecting some slight
recognition of my real worth for a long time, but when the blow fell I
was hardly prepared for it. Hurrying to "My Blue Jacket's Manual," I
succeeded by the aid of a picture in getting firmly in my mind the
port and starboard side of a ship and then I presented myself before
the examiners--three doughty and unsmiling officers. There were about
twelve of us up for examination. Seating ourselves before the three
gentlemen, we gazed upon them with ill-concealed trepidation. One of
them called the roll in a languid manner, and then without further
preliminaries the battle began, and I received the first shock of the
assault. I don't quite remember the question that man asked me, it was
all too ghastly at the time, but I think it was something like this:

"What would you do if you were at the wheel in a dense fog and you
heard three whistles on your port beam, four whistles off the
starboard bow, and a prolonged toot dead ahead?"

"I would still remain in a dense fog," I gasped in a low voice.

"Speak up!" snapped the officer.

"Full speed ahead and jumps," whispered a guy next to me. It sounded
reasonable. I seized upon it eagerly.

"I'd put full steam ahead and jump, sir," I replied.

"Are you mad?" shouted the amazed officer.

"No, sir," I hastened to assure him, "only profoundly perplexed. I
think, sir, that I would go into a conference, under the
circumstances."

The officer seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

"What's your name?" asked another officer suddenly.

I told him.

"Initials?"

I told him. He looked at the paper for a moment.

"That explains it," he said with a sigh of relief, "you're not the
man. There has been some mistake. Orderly, take this man away and
bring back the right one. Pronto!"

That Spanish stuff sounds awfully sea-going. I was taken away, but the
officer had not yet recovered. He regarded me with an expression of
profound disgust. Anyway I created a sensation.

[Illustration: "'I WOULD STILL REMAIN IN A DENSE FOG,' I GASPED IN A
LOW VOICE"]


_Sept. 4th._ Things have been happening with overwhelming rapidity. On
the strength of being properly engaged to Polly, my permanent sweetie,
I went to my Regimental commander this morning and applied for a
furlough. He regarded me pityingly for a moment and then carefully
scanned a list of names on the desk before him.

"I am sorry," he said finally, "but not only am I not able to grant
your request, but I have the unpleasant duty to inform you that you
are a little less than forty-eight hours from the vicinity of Ambrose
light."

"Shipped!" I gasped as the world swam around me.

"Your name is on this list," said the officer not unkindly.

"Shipped!" I repeated in a dazed voice.

"It does seem ridiculous, I'll admit," said the officer, smiling, "but
you never can tell what strange things are going to happen in the
Navy. If I were in your place I'd take advantage of this head start I
have given you and get my clothes and sea-bag in some sort of
condition. If I remember rightly, you have never been able
successfully to achieve this since you've been in the service."

"Thank you, sir," I gasped, and bolted. In my excitement I ran
violently into a flock of ensigns stalking across the parade ground.

"I'm going to be shipped," I cried by way of explanation to one of
them as he arose wrathfully.

"You're going to be damned," said he, and I was. Too frantic to write
more.


_Sept. 5th._ All preparations have been made. Tim, Tony and the Spider
are going too. I have just been listening to the most disturbing
conversation. It all arose from our speculating as to our probable
destination and the nature of our services. The Master-at-arms, who
had been sleeping on the hammock rack as only a Master-at-arms can,
permitted himself to remain awake long enough to join in.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," said he, "if you were shipped to
one of these new Submarine Provokers."

"What's that?" I asked uneasily.

"Why, it's a sort of a dee-coy," said he, stretching his huge hulk, "a
little, unarmed boat that goes messing around in the ocean until it
finds a submarine and then it provokes it."

"How's that?" asked Tim.

"Why, you see," continued the jimmy-legs, "it just sort of steams back
and forth in front of the submarine, just steams slowly back and forth
in front of the submarine until it provokes it."

"Ah!" said I, taking a deep breath.

"Yes," he continues cheerfully, "and the more you provoked the
submarine why the harder it shoots at you, so of course it doesn't
notice the real Submarine Sinker coming up behind it. See the
tactics."

"Oh," says I, "we just provoke the submarine until it loses its temper
and the other boat sinks it."

"That's it," says the jimmy-legs, "you just sort of steam back and
forth in front of it slowly."

"How slowly?" asks the Spider.

"Very," replied the jimmy-legs.

"No guns at all?" asks Tim.

"None," says he.

"A regular little home," suggests Tony.

"Sure," says the jimmy-legs, "nothing to do at all but steam slowly
back--"